As Ours Fell Before the Scissors of the Witch
by RobinRocks
Summary: "That is what some of the others said," America replied, rolling over away from England. "Right before I had them hanged." Based on Otoshigo's comic 'The Lost Colony' on the USUK community. Two-shot. COMPLETE.
1. i will show you fear

Firstly, apologies to all who got an alert for this and saw it was in the Shakespeare section (as opposed to _Hetalia_). As you may know, FFNet is experiencing some failage of an epic degree and hasn't yet gotten off its bitch-ass and dealt with it. Initially I had planned to post this last Wednesday but FFNet was having none of it. I originally decided to wait out the failage but the failage is yet ongoing and I figured... you know what? God knows how long this failage is going to last. So I turned to the clever clever get-around of posting it in the wrong section and moving it.

SO. Right. Let's get down to it. If you read the summary (and I would hope that you did, having clicked on this), you will know that I based this story on a wonderful comic by **Otoshigo**, who seems to primarily lurk on LJ. Some of you may be familiar with her work, particularly if you obsessively hang about the USUK LJ community like a starving stray cat around the bins at the back of a Chinese restaurant as I do. XD Her comics are almost all USUK (with some exceptions with regards to it being a pairing) and they can be really cracky and hilarious and, conversely, really... _not_.

So. _This_. What is this, exactly? This is a fanfic based on (more a sort of continuation of) a comic of Otoshigo's called _Roanoke/The Lost Colony_, which I first read probably about two months ago. Okay. It's _amazing_. Seriously. A plot bunny, which was bred by my initial misunderstanding of the comic's fantastic ending, sank its teeth into my writing hand and refused to let go – so I grovelled to Otoshigo to let me spill my writing guts by elaborating on it and she very graciously allowed me the loan of her plot and her lovely fairy king.

To that end, given that this is a continuation of Otoshigo's story and not a fanfic "adaptation" of it, it would be beneficial to you if, before proceeding, you read the comic in question. It's 55 pages but a lot of these pages only have one panel on them, so it really shouldn't take you much more than five minutes to get through it. Sorry to spring homework on you but I assure you it's worth reading. =)

The link:** http: / community .livejournal .com/ shigo_stack/ 22887. html#cutid1 **(Take out the spaces, obviously, and enjoy the serious punches this comic throws at you!)

I'm not going to spoil the plot of the comic by recapping it any more than what my summary gave away, so ignore the comic at your own inconvenience. You won't understand this fic without reading it. Not to ostracize you but, you know... It's like watching _Return of the Jedi_ without bothering about the two that come before it. It's just _not done_, gentlemen.

Thank you to Otoshigo for allowing me to write this! All credit goes to her for the original plotline this was based on and England generally being a bamf.

As Ours Fell Before the Scissors of the Witch

[I will show you fear—] 

"What are you expecting to find?" England asks coolly. "Communist spies lurking behind every public telephone box?"

"You're being clever," America replies archly, not looking up from his paperwork (more invested in his duties than England has ever seen him). "Or, at least, you think you are."

He pauses.

"It's cute," he says. "Endearing." He signs his name impressively – great loops and flicks in the capitals. Showing off.

Showing how powerful he is. How he can do what he likes. Blacklists are only the beginning, if he feels like it.

"But don't get _too_ clever," he adds lightly. "You know very well what comes of that."

He looks up then, his blue eyes meeting England's across the office. They are clear, intense, hunted. He pushes up his glasses, looking at England very intently, almost pleadingly.

_Shut up. For god's sake, shut up. Hold your tongue. _

Of course. Disobey him, go against him, scare him, and he punishes. Oh, how he punishes.

(And how England lets him.)

England shakes off the little shiver that scuttles down his spine, looking away.

"This is getting ridiculous," he says. Icy. Defiant. "You know it is."

There is another hideous hanging hesitation between them.

"...You mean like before?" America looks up. He is smiling and it's not a pleasant expression at all.

England knows it well and wishes that he didn't. It isn't like before, not really – and yet it is. It's exactly like before. America will be merciless about it, desperate and reckless and paranoid; England looks at him and sees the dark circles under his eyes, at his nails bitten raggedly right down. He is just as frightened as he was back then.

It is exactly the same.

"Relax," America says breezily, standing. "You don't have anything to worry about. You're Capitalist. You're my ally." He comes around the desk, towards England; bigger than him, broader, stronger, his fists clenched so that England can't see his ruined nails, can't stare at them and judge him, diagnose him as mad. "It's Russia I'm after. China, too. Bastards – sly little Red fuckers, hiding in plain sight all throughout the war. At our side, weren't they? Could have done anything to us while we trusted them, turned our backs on them without thinking ill of it—"

"Stop it." England resists the urge to put his hands over his ears. "Stop it, America."

America cants his head to one side; gentle, lolling, still smiling.

"Stop what?" he asks innocently.

England looks at him. It isn't America's fault. It _isn't_. It never has been. It's just that the blame falls on _his_ shoulders when others about him – the people he should be able to trust – are the ones who have been making deals with devils.

(One deal and one devil in particular.)

"Half of Hollywood's walking on eggshells," America informs him happily. "I'll get them, don't you worry." He presses his hands together in childlike, greedy glee. "Gotta make sure everyone's safe, you know? Part of being a hero an' all."

"Indeed." England can't bear to look at him anymore and turns away. "Well, then, enjoy your witch-hunt," he says stiffly.

America catches at his wrist. He doesn't pull him close. He does nothing except hold onto him – holding, holding, until England looks at him. Has no choice but to look at him. Trembling. Despairing. Guilty.

"Oh," America says gently, pressing a kiss to England's forehead, "I will."

* * *

"Do you know," America said conversationally, sprawling himself across the wide bed, "that it was not as easy as you might believe?"

England paused in undressing, not turning to him.

"What was not?" he asked after a moment. "What, pray, might warrant my disbelief?"

America laughed; it had a delighted childish kick to it, a squeal of merriment quite unbidden by the nature of England's words.

"The trials, of course," he replied, resting his chin on his hands. "Oftentimes it went in mere circles – everyone believed that to accuse someone else would be to save their own skin."

"That is the nature of these things," England said stiffly. "The same can be said, too, of the trials in my own lands some fifty years ago. Fear is a powerful thing."

_Is it not, America?_

England glanced at the boy on the bed, dressed for slumber in a cotton shift with his thin, awkward legs bare. He was beginning to properly hit adolescence, taller and broader than he had been before. For all his changes, however, nothing about him looked deadly or devilish – just that same sweet smile England had always known.

(Had he smiled like that as his witches swung?)

"It does not matter," America said, looking up at the ceiling. "I vowed that justice would be done and so it was. Nineteen witches hanged; twenty-six in total convicted of their crimes." He clasped his hands together. "But there might yet be more." Glancing imploringly at England, he added, "Will you not help me in seeking them? Users of magic will not be permitted to live. I will see them all destroyed."

"Do you not think," England replied evasively, "that twenty-six might have been the whole sum?"

America gravely shook his head.

"I am certain that there are more," he said, "hiding, waiting, denying what they are to preserve themselves. Why, even some of those that I had condemned to death would not confess!"

England faltered.

"Is that so?" he muttered.

America nodded, smiling again.

"But t'was to no avail," he babbled happily, "for I saw the evil in their hearts. One I had crushed – stones piled upon his frail body for each time he denied his wickedness. Still he did not confess. That, I am sure, is dedication to the Devil, to keep silent under such circumstances. What but a witch could have withstood such pain and still had the voice to deny their craft?"

For a long moment, England looked at him. As before, nothing in America's face belied the capability of such cruelty, the ability to delight in anything so awful as what he was describing with that joy alight in his clear blue eyes. It was hidden well, all of it, behind a mask that couldn't have been more perfect. New, stainless, sinless world.

"Sweet boy," England said gently, uneasily, drawing close by the candlelight, "my dear America... Do you not think that these might be games gone too far?"

America looked at him guardedly for a moment.

"That is what some of the others said," he replied airily, feigning a yawn and rolling over. "Right before I had them hanged."

—

"_What think you, England?"_

_Even the voice slithers, every syllable sliding, squirming, beneath England's skin. It is a voice that he hasn't heard for a long time._

_It has been decades since he made the deal, after all._

"_I did not call you," England says coldly. "That was the bargain – you would come to claim him only if I called."_

"_Perhaps you ought to," Crow suggests lightly, "given what he has become." _

_He is everywhere and nowhere, not physical in his presence as he was before when England bid him forth from the Faerie Realm, all around instead, crawling in every shadow, creeping in every corner, oozing from every crack. His malevolence is like rot on the walls, putrid and permanent; so thick and obtrusive that it almost rattles in England's chest when he breathes in._

"_This is a dream, of course," Crow says when England does not reply. "Your dream. We have dominion over dreams, as you know. 'Tis a plane perfect for the planting of tiny seeds to bloom and grow – although rest assured that I have nothing to poison you with, dear England."_

_He smiles; England can feel it constricting in the air, some twisted, warped half-moon in which teeth gleam._

"_I expect," England replies icily, "that you have little poison to spare after what you have done to America."_

"_Oh, am I to be blamed for that?" Crow scoffs. "Truly, England, you have no-one to blame but yourself. Were he a changeling, I would grant you my interference – but a deal is a deal. I gave you what you wanted at no cost."_

"_But for the price of his sanity!" England cries angrily. "For how long have you haunted him?"_

"_You make it sound as though I have little better to do," Crow says, his tone petulant and ugly. "I have not the time to dedicate to the unravelling of weak and fragile minds. Perhaps once, twice, I have toyed with him, that I will allow you, but to suggest that I have spent my every waking hour burrowing deeper still into your precious boy's brain is insulting to the king of the faeries."_

"_Then to __**what**__, your majesty," England spits, "do I owe the accusation?"_

"_Not I," Crow sings, "but rather our deal." His voice shifts about the walls, bouncing back and forth like an echo. "What do you expect, you ridiculous creature, from breathing life back into a corpse? Nary a heartbeat nor a breath passed through his body for days before you sought remedy. Did you truly believe that all would be well when he was reborn only by a bargain?" He laughs again, rich and rasping and delighted. "T'was powerful magic indeed employed to banish such putrefaction as that which had set in – silver stitches, potent and priceless, to stop his flesh from falling away from his tender bones. I restored him to you for no price of my own. Anything taken – such as his mind – was not my doing but only the natural design of such things, the etching of its mark; or are you truly too stupid to see this?"_

"_But does it not delight you?" England hisses in a low voice. "Nonetheless, does it not satisfy you to see what he has become?"_

"_Of course," Crow sighs, "but it is the magic in him – and not I – which rises behind his eyes, which threatens to burst out of the very skin that confines it. Were he human, I daresay it would have killed him long ago."_

"_Baptised in magic, then," England retorts, "and yet he turns on those whom he professes to be witches – murders them for their crimes with glee, no less!"_

"_Ah," Crows says, his voice musical, "that would be fear. Terror of the substance which restored him, which holds him together even now – yet he recognises it not in himself but rather in the repulsiveness, the baseness, of human nature." His breath is suddenly on the back of England's neck; but when England turns, terrified, furious, fists clenched, there is nothing there. "And what of you, dear little deal-maker? Do you not fear? Are you not the worst of all? Reveal to him the reason that he breathes and he will have you hanged – and do you not deserve it? After all..." _

_There is a long, considering pause; England clenches his fists and breathes in sharply, waiting, heart pounding._

"_...Had you truly loved him then with all the truth that you proclaimed, you would not have offered up his corpse to be a vessel for such wickedness. Your anger at this, your despair at what he has done, is only because you thought that he should be perfect; that was mere greed on your part." Crow's long, spiderlike fingers curve about England's shoulders and he doesn't dare to move. "The self-same greed with which you condemned him."_

_England shudders miserably but can say nothing. It is the truth. The terrible, hideous truth._

"_Still." Crow is gone again, dancing lightly away into the darkness before England can catch a glimpse of him. "It is simple. Our deal still stands. Call to me and I shall come for him. You need not inflict him upon the world any longer." Another gleaning, dreadful pause. "Unless your selfishness knows no bounds and you wish to keep him even now – with the blood of twenty-six people on his pretty hands."_

"_And what if I do?" England asks dully._

_Crow laughs, a high screech of mirth something like an owl or a kestrel mere moments before the kill._

"_Be it on your own head, then," he says graciously. "Know that he will not suffer a witch to live."_

England opened his eyes, wide and blind in the pitch darkness of the bedroom, with a faint gasp that jolted him back into wakefulness. The room was silent but for his own quick, frightened breathing and the slower, steadier in-and-out of America's, who slept next to him with a peace strange for him. Nothing, nothing; England listened and heard nought of deals and bargains, promises and predictions, no hissed mockeries or repulsive, deformed truths.

Exhaling wearily, he rolled over, gathering America closer, protectively, into his arms; the teenager was almost getting too big for him to fit comfortably against his chest but England felt him curl into his grasp intuitively, nuzzling close the way he liked to when begging to share the bed. Tonight at least, it seemed, his dreams remained unhaunted.

Was this enough? England wondered. Twenty-six "witches", mere facsimiles projected from the ills and ugliness of America himself; all that was wrong with him, all that England had cursed him with, which had warped hideously into hysteria and gone amongst the townspeople of Salem, passing like a plague between them.

Would it stop at twenty-six or would he seek more to pay for his pound of flesh?

(But, if not, England knew guiltily that he would still hesitate to call for Crow; better yet a persecutor of witches than a plaything of fairies.)

"My precious and only treasure," he whispered into America's hair, "I will condemn you no further no matter how many you kill."

* * *

There was an air of skittishness, of mistrust, hanging low about the town; England knew it well from home, the foul perfume of man-eat-man that collected on street corners and in stores, round about the church, anywhere that people gathered and gossiped.

England hadn't wanted to come anywhere near the town, preferring to steer himself and America clear of it, having now come to know what the boy had done to this inward, isolated little society; necessity, however, had brought him forth on errands, America trotting along at his side with the paper-wrapped loaf of bread in his arms as though perfectly oblivious to the atmosphere of Salem.

Their presence did not go unnoticed. Gazes slid over them from street to street; knowing America, naturally, having followed his lead in the witch-hunt, but with him still standing apart from them in his brighter, fancier clothing. These were Puritans, of course, and so in distaste they regarded England (who, in return, had never liked them and had been rather glad when they packed up and left in the years following the English Civil War), no doubt thinking him vain and sinful for his velvet and lace, for the jewel that glittered in his cravat pin. They gathered in groups of two and three where England and America stopped, clustered like plain grey pebbles on the shore, not daring to come too close or speak even a word of greeting, simply clinking instead. England ignored them but watched America rather warily nonetheless.

It was America, of course, who had put the fear of witchcraft into _them_ – not the other way around – but still England didn't trust them not to turn on him all the same; perhaps reasoning that his intuition in "knowing" witches when he saw them was a witchcraft of its own.

"Come, America," he said in a low voice. "It is drawing near noon and the walk back is not a short one."

America smiled and nodded.

"Very well," he said cheerfully, scampering obediently after him.

He strayed near a small cluster of women, barely regarding them; but they drew back, England noticed, and away from him, perhaps in fear. America stopped, glancing at them with his head to one side.

"Why do you shy from me?" he asked lightly. "What injury does my presence cause you?"

The women shook their heads, looking down, away, anywhere, not answering. Still smiling – though it began to twist at the edges – America drew closer to them.

"You shy," he said, not posing it as a question this time. "You fear me. What dread could I possibly instil in an innocent with nothing to hide...?"

"None!" burst out one of the women. "We have nothing hide and nothing to fear from you!"

"Ah," America said gently, "but is it not in your nature to deny what you are?"

The women – three of them – paled and stumbled back from him, one falling upon her knees to beg that he not accuse her of witchcraft.

America looked positively delighted.

"Enough of this!" England seized America's arm and hauled him away, holding tight when he resisted. "Come home with me at once!"

America stopped struggling, seeming strangely agreeable.

"As you wish," he said pleasantly. He let England pull him away, only glancing back over his shoulder once at the trembling woman, who was now being helped to her feet by one of her companions.

He seemed satisfied, England noted, for he came along without further acknowledgement of the matter, humming a hymn to himself instead. Watching him two or three paces ahead, a bounce in his step, England suddenly felt that it would be irresponsible of him to leave America by himself ever again. How many hanged witches might he come home to next time if something so simple was enough to make the boy seek out invented fancies to fit his regime of punishment, of purification? What would the king and queen say to that, if only he knew what had happened in the colonies – what would no doubt _continue_ to happen if England so much as let America out of his sight? Deals for the dead aside, was it not England's responsibility? America was only a child, after all; still only a colony, not even a century old. Perhaps he ought not to have ever left him in the first place.

But, if he could _not_ watch him at all times, what else to do with him other than leave the world at his mercy?

Coming level with the churchyard, America turned suddenly to England, holding out his empty hand.

"Come with me," he implored, "only for a moment. I wish to show you something."

England hesitated. He hadn't, after all, liked the last thing America had so excitedly shown him; his proud display of hanging witches swaying like windchimes.

"We shall not be long!" America insisted at his silence, already reaching out to grasp England about his wrist. "Come! We shall away soon enough!" He pulled at him, forcing him to follow.

England allowed himself to be led through the tall grass and overgrown wildflowers of the graveyard, carefully stepping over poorly-dug graves already beginning to sink and vanish into the ground. A handful of butterflies, bright shards of dizzy drunken flight, flittered between head-high foxgloves and threads of tightly-woven forget-me-nots; and several rabbits rustled at the disturbance of their feet. At the back of the churchyard, beneath the weeping willow, were fewer graves, the place not yet filled.

"T'is a surprise," America said, wedging the loaf at his elbow to cover England's eyes with his hands, making it an obscene game of Blindman's Buff as he urged England onwards from behind. "Keep going..."

"America, stop this nonsense," England said coldly, trying to wrestle his hands away – only to find him too strong. "I shall fall and break my neck at this rate."

"I daresay it would take a fall of around six feet to do that," America replied sweetly. He stopped, England with him, and took away his hands. "Here we are."

An open grave lay before them; freshly-dug, perhaps a few days ago at most. The headstone was plain, clumsy but well-serving, already carved out with a name.

"What think you, England?" America asked softly at his ear, his words enchanting his very blood (that it ran cold all throughout him at those familiar words).

England looked over his shoulder at him.

"What," he asked acidly, "is the meaning of this, Cr—?"

He stopped himself, his heart jolting as the name – bidden by the familiarity of the query pattern, the same amused, indulgent tone – almost slipped off his tongue and into the irretrievable ether of reality. He bit at his bottom lip, not trusting himself to speak again, instead clenching his fists fiercely, frightenedly, at his sides.

America laughed prettily at his ear.

"Do you like it? I dug it myself. Only the best for you, of course." He sighed, dropping the bread in order to wrap arms about England from behind, pressing his forehead to the back of his neck. "But pray make it a gift wasted and a promise unfulfilled."

England read the gravestone again. _England. 1693. Heretic._

"Heresy?" he asked quietly. "Is that the title you would befit me?"

America rested his chin on England's shoulder.

"Stop me again," he said blandly, "and I will fit you with more than just the name."

* * *

The summary says two-shot. This is indeed a two-shot. Second half will be up when I finish it, lololol.

**Literature references (there are many... T.T):**

**1]** Given the importance of deals in this story, the title (which is long and a bit awkward, you have no doubt noticed) was deliberately chosen not only for its connotations of witchcraft; it's a line from Hans Christian Andersen's original _The Little Mermaid_, spoken to the title character by her sisters after they trade their long, beautiful hair to the sea-witch to bargain for the condemned mermaid's life.

**2] **"I will show you fear" is the first half of a line from T.S. Eliot's poem _The Waste-Land_; the second half, "in a handful of dust", will be the sub-heading of the other part of this fic. (Random bit of trivia: Evelyn Waugh quoted this line when naming his novel _A Handful of Dust_.)

**3]** There wasn't any actual specific reference but the first scene (set in the Cold War around the time of the major Hollywood blacklistings) is a reversal, of sorts, of the allegory present in Arthur Miller's _The Crucible_, which uses the Salem Witch Trials as a social commentary of Cold War-era America_._

**4]** "Pound of flesh" is from William Shakespeare's _The Merchant of Venice_; it, too, is part of a deal, Shylock's price to Antonio in return for borrowing money (if he cannot repay it). Essentially Antonio hangs his life in balance in making this deal.

**5]** "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" is from Exodus 22:18; the ambiguous but imperative nature of this command made it an excellent weapon for so-called "witch-hunters" to use in trials.

**6]** England's line "My precious and only treasure" has undertones of _The Scarlet Letter_ by Nathaniel Hawthorne, in which Hester Prynne's illegitimate daughter Pearl is referred to as "her mother's only treasure"; part of the reason Hawthorne wrote the novel was to attack Puritan culture due to the guilt he felt. Hawthorne's great-great-grandfather, John Hathorne, had been an executor at the Salem Witch Trials, something which Hawthorne was always ashamed of, prompting him to add the 'w' to his name by means of disassociation.

Soooo... I think that's it for now! Second half, as I said, when it's done, perhaps next week sometime.

...Unless Otoshigo orders me to take this down on charges of bastardisation, hahaha. (Speaking of, I hope you don't mind that I borrowed Crow! I found him really intriguing and felt that he ought to be revisited.)

Well, I hope everyone, _including_ Otoshigo, has enjoyed this so far. Thank you for reading! :)

Ooh, and lastly, this seems to be the best place to mention this given that this fic is based on a comic strip. SHAMELESS PLUG: Some of you may already know but I'm working on a doujin entitled _Rockets _with the wonderful **Hakuku**. Well, my part is done - I wrote the script based on her original plot notes - and Haku is working very diligently on the artwork. Two chapters are up and Haku is working on the third. It's a USUK AU about fashion-designer!Arthur and model!Alfred. =) A link to the tumblr account, which has links to both chapters so far, is on my profile, if you would like to read it!

Aaaaaaaaaaanyway... that's that. I think. o.O

RobinRocks

xXx

(Final fun fact: Foxgloves are sometimes called "witch's fingers", presumably due to how freaking poisonous they are.)


	2. in a handful of dust

Wellllll... I don't think this second half really needs anywhere near as many ANs as the first half did now that all the explanation is out of the way! Thank you for coming back if you're a returning reader, with super-special thanks to my reviewers for the first half: **Dark Archive, DesktopNeko, Chocotaku, ForeverTheHeroAndKing, Picadillo, Nickel Xenon, 8bitoj, MoonlitMelody **and **Catherine2691**!

Also thank you to **Otoshigo** for not hating it and allowing me to continue, haha. I really hope you like this second part just as much! =)

As before, all credit to Otoshigo for the original storyline this is based on, _The Lost Colony_ (PLEASE read this first if you haven't already!), in addition to the character of Crow and the whole Roanoke/America thing. Anyone who read _The Lost Colony _but didn't bother reading Otoshigo's notes that go with it, Roanoke was an earlier English colony set up in North America before Jamestown, etc, which just... completely disappeared. To this day, no-one knows what happened to the settlers and the colony. O.o Veeeery strange indeed...

As Ours Fell Before the Scissors of the Witch

[—In a handful of dust]

They sat before the fire in silence; America read, the soft and subtle shift of paper hanging every now and then like commas in the air, unneeded punctuation to break up the hush. His long, awkward legs were folded underneath him, his whole loose and languid body like a piece of discarded dockyard rope at the hearth. He was enjoying the fire; it was obvious, for every now and then he leaned closer, rolled his shoulder blades, his joints and muscles popping as he relaxed just that little bit more. Perfectly content, the heat, the comfort, drew him closer.

England sat in an armchair and stitched, repairing one of America's shirts. There was a hole in the sleeve, the reason for which England did not particularly care to inquire after. There was something calming about the rhythm of it, the in-out-in-out and the glint of the needle and the pull of the thread; it was something he had perfect control over, where the metal pierced, where the cotton tightened. This was damage that he could easily fix.

He paused, glancing up at America. The teenager's hair was glowing more garishly gold than usual, a rich canvas for every lick of the flames in the grate so that their skeletal dance scurried across his skull. His eyes – cornflower, forget-me-not – darted greedily to and fro across the page. He was reading the King James Holy Bible, a staple of the Puritans. England wanted to tear it out of his hands and toss it into the fire but stilled his hand (his desperation, his fear).

Besides, he looked so content that England had little want to disturb him. Given what he'd seen of America's recent behaviour – and having known before of the nightmares, of the deep and dreadful melancholy that seized upon the child from time to time – England considered that this kind of peace-of-mind was a rarity. Yes, perhaps this was the best way of going about it – uncannily calm, deliberately ignorant, forcibly indulgent. Maybe the worst was over – twenty-six "witches" and the sickness was out of his system. America would get better now. All England had to do was be patient, be kind—

Be forgiving even though America had already dug for him a grave.

Yes, it would not do to panic. Handled the wrong way and this had all the makings of an epidemic; it could be contained to Salem and Salem alone if only he culled it. America was the core of the disease, a sentient Plague wrapped in a dead-deal shell, walking witchcraft whispering lightly into the ears and brains and sanity of his townspeople and planting wicked little ideas in their heads. He was little short of a changeling, held together by faerie magic, his unconscious fear of his own awful decay blossoming as outward attacks on those he saw to embody his terror.

This was nothing to do with Crow anymore.

America shifted and suddenly put down his Bible, closing it very carefully. He crawled over to England and rested his head on his knees, his eyes sliding shut.

"I missed you," he said, his dark eyelashes flickering against his cheeks. "It grows so lonely, so quiet, without you here for company."

"I..." England hesitated for a long moment before deeming it safe to put his hand on America's head, patting his hair gently. "I am sorry, America."

America shook his head.

"Do not be," he said. "I know you cannot help it. Your duties keep you from me."

"I wish it was not so."

"But it is." America lifted his head again, his whole body following as he pulled himself up into England's lap. He was too big for it, really, heavy and gangly, difficult to embrace, but England put his arms around him as best he could and cuddled him close. Who was he to deny him affection now (when he needed it so badly)? "Please do not trouble yourself, England. You are here now. That is enough."

He was being eerily adult about it and England was briefly unsettled by the weightlessness of his words, worrying at his lip for a moment. America sighed into his neck, nuzzling against him.

"May I ask you something?" the boy whispered.

"Of course, my dear." England closed his eyes, holding America just that little bit tighter. "Anything."

There was another long moment of silence, as delicate and brittle as fine-spun glass, glimmering in the air as the tension prickled, needled, at England's very skin. America festered quite contently in his arms, humming low and sweet in his throat as he considered the best words to choose.

In the end he decided to be blunt about it.

"Can you still do magic?" he asked liltingly, the query sing-song and childish.

England stroked his hair.

"Those lies again, darling?" he replied gently. "You are getting too old, I think, to be making up such ridiculous things."

America blinked at him, clearly taken very much aback by the response.

"...L-lies?" he repeated. He didn't seem to know what to say or what to do with himself in the face of this accusation.

England nodded and cuddled him close.

"Your imagination always has been so very vivid," he said softly.

—

America didn't say another syllable for the rest of the evening. Whether he was truly upset by England's words or simply sulking at his guardian's refusal to be cornered was unclear; but he closed himself off and became utterly inaccessible, not even _ignoring_ England's further bids for his attention but simply seeming... to no longer be aware of his presence. Having slipped off his lap, he had gone to the windowsill instead and, perching there, turned his attention to the window and whatever was beyond it, those same dark woods he had always been so morbidly fascinated by.

His thin fingers twisted absently in his lap as though braiding rope.

He followed England to bed, trailing after him, past his own door – apparently adamant that tonight, too, he would be having England's company, though he did not plead and wheedle and hang onto England's arm as he usually did. He simply followed, silent and entitled, and England, however uneasily, did not try to chase him. The atmosphere was very different from last night (there was no cheerful chatter on the child's part of how he had hunted his witches) but England really couldn't fathom which he preferred.

He changed by candlelight, his back to America – who sat on the bed, already dressed in his thin shift, and watched him like a hawk, silent and predatory. Keeping an eye on the shadows on the opposite wall, observant for sudden movements in them that might give America away where his bulk did not, England kept his back to him. He wasn't afraid of him, not at all; it was the other way around, in fact, but England knew better than to jab at a terrified snake with a cane and this was much the same thing. Back America up much more and he might _snap_ and go for the throat.

He heard the boy shifting about on the bed and, for a moment, stilled, listening for a decisive pattern in his movements. He could decipher none and turned towards America to see him lying at the head of the bed on his back. His long legs were askew and, although his shift covered him modestly to his knees, the thinness of the material did little to hide his erection. He didn't seem comfortable with it, for he moved again, and England thought it presumptuous of himself to assume that America's body had reacted in this way to watching _him_ change – he was an adolescent, after all, and it wasn't as though England hadn't changed his wet sheets come morning before. Nonetheless, he looked at America rather reprovingly, expecting him to be red-faced about it, to perhaps try and hide his shame or even excuse himself for the night, the turn of events making him too embarrassed to insist on still sharing England's bed.

America did no such thing. Instead he met England's gaze rather lazily, even insolently, and did absolutely nothing. His face was very white and his blue eyes clear and hard. He didn't touch himself, of course – even in his defiance, England didn't think that he would dare – but he lay carelessly sprawled with it in plain sight, holding England's gaze, challenging him, accusing him, until England himself broke it and looked away rather angrily, furious at the boy's sudden appalling behaviour.

England was no Puritan and hadn't raised America to be one, either; but this was inappropriate, even offensive, and America knew it. He was delighting in pushing and pushing at England, testing more violently than ever before what he could and couldn't get away with, seeing how far he could go before his guardian lost his rag with him – England saw it in his eyes, in his body language.

"Shall I sin?" America asked lightly; England looked sharply at him again, watching his hand trail down over his chest and stomach towards the tent in his shift. His face had reddened a little now and England saw his hand falter briefly a few times but he seemed _determined_ to get a rise out of his elder come hell or high water.

"Do so and I shall toss you into the hall," England replied icily, meeting his gaze again, "and lock you out for the remainder of the night. That is all you will gain from such disgusting behaviour in my presence, boy."

A key turned in America's innocent smile, opening it up most twistedly. His hand fell away back to the bed.

"Oh," he sighed, closing his eyes, "but is that fair?" Still smiling, he added breathily, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone."

"If all you intend to do is quote Bible passages at me like those bastard Puritans," England spat, "you can get out of my sight, you little hellion."

America's blue eyes opened again, glimmering prettily in the candlelight.

"What use would a hellion have for Bible passages?" he asked gently. "Your words make no sense at all."

England paused, momentarily derailed. America seemed to take that as another small victory and at last retreated under the sheets, rolling onto his side. He said nothing else and went very still, blonde hair brightly burning on the pillow.

Cautiously, England at last joined him, blowing out the candle. America did not draw close to him, staying exactly where he was, terse and turned away. England was relieved and gladly turned his back on him in return, settling, not bothering to muster even a goodnight.

* * *

America was making breakfast; England could smell it as he dressed. The boy seemed much more cheerful this morning, singing to himself as he clattered about the kitchen. The morning was a bright one, clear and fresh, and even England – with all the weight that preyed upon his mind – felt better about himself. America had been gone from the bed when he had awoken, no doubt going down ahead to tend to the few animals kept for milk and eggs, and England hadn't even heard him leave.

Slipping out of his shift, England reached instead for his undershirt – and saw, beneath the sun's bright rays on his arm, the angry red marks clinging sulkily to his skin. He pulled his arm back in shock, dropping his shift as he twisted his elbow this way and that to look at his arm in horror. They were nail-marks, there was no doubt about it, long and shallow, never once drawing blood but deep enough to have caused lasting damage that remained even now. His blood running chill, England looked at his other arm, his left, to find it much the same. He stumbled to the mirror at the dresser to examine himself, feeling suddenly these phantom scrape-marks all over his person, stinging in the cool morning air; drawing his reflection, however, he found his face and chest clear of a single mark but for his own scars. In fact, everywhere was clear, even his back, but for his forearms—

And for his neck. There was a red ring about his throat, bordering to his collarbone, to the beginnings of his shoulders.

He braced the mirror, letting out a stifled breath. For a long moment the only thing he heard was the pounding of his own blood in his ears. His shaking fingers gripped at the wooden frame of the mirror—

"England!" America trilled it up to him from the foot of the stairs. "England, hasten yourself! Breakfast is prepared!"

"A-ah, yes, I shall be there momentarily!" England called back, wrenching himself away from the mirror and snatching up his shirt again. "You may begin without me!"

America went back to the kitchen and England listened to the up-and-down melody of creaking floorboards and the clang of cooking utensils, the sounds of normalcy as he dressed quickly. His sleeves and cravat hid everything—

Just as America had no doubt anticipated.

There was no mention of it at breakfast, however; England opted to say nothing, wondering if perhaps America would give himself away by allowing his gaze to linger too long on England's arms, by letting his smirk settle on his throat. But the boy seemed preoccupied by other things and hadn't a spare scrap of attention for any part of England other than his face, for he chattered animatedly to him throughout, barely pausing for a breath or a bite. Certainly his demeanour was entirely changed from last night and even the night before, opener, friendlier, more the America (the Roanoke) that England had once known. Despite the scratch-marks on his skin – which could _only_ have been America's doing – England sensed himself relax slightly in his presence, feeling far more comfortable with him than he had since he had arrived back to the Massachusetts colony. America, too, seemed much happier in England's company.

Of course, England had seen these violent mood swings in America before; they had been a regular feature of his personality ever since he had been revived from death all those decades ago. This would likely not last and so England chose to make the best of it.

(He only ate what he saw America eating, however, and chewed carefully. He wasn't so naïve as to assume that America, with his current behaviour, wouldn't slip something sharp or poisonous into his food. He hated to think it of the boy, especially with him smiling so sweetly like that, but England nonetheless didn't intend to be stupid about this. He'd been stabbed in the back before – and those scrape-marks spoke for themselves.)

"That was wonderful," England complimented him carefully, finishing his tea as America rose and began to clear away the dishes. "I think, truly, that I must be full to bursting." He moved, calculatingly, to put his hand on his stomach, to pat it as pretend punctuation, and deliberately let his shirt sleeve pull back just enough, leaving his scratched wrist in full view of America as the teenager leaned over to lift England's plate.

America beamed at him.

"I am glad indeed that you enjoyed it so," he said sweetly; and he took the plate and was gone.

Hmm. England let his hand drop rather more carelessly onto his middle and sipped at his tea again, watching America's back. Well, _that_ was interesting, wasn't it. Not an interrogative, incidentally.

Perhaps... perhaps America hadn't meant to do it; maybe he had done it in his sleep, lashing out at the nearest thing to him in his dreams, clawing and fighting not in malice but in sheer terror, in defence. Come morning, perhaps he did not remember it – and that was why he did not search for it on England's skin, did not notice even when it was flashed so lewdly and deliberately before him.

And yet... were that the case, why hadn't England _felt_ it? Why hadn't he awoken to the child thrashing about as he so often did, screaming in his sleep? Why was this so altered? True, America had bruised him before from tossing about and accidentally kicking or elbowing him, but this... this was different. Quiet. Calculated. Hateful.

Warning.

He tugged down his cuff again and distractedly played with a bit of salt sprinkled on the table's surface, part of the debris from breakfast; he absently tossed it over his left shoulder when he was done, glancing up and catching America's eye. Again, America simply smiled at him and went about washing up, humming to himself. There were a few fairies up on the shelf above him, admiring their reflections in a silver plate propped there; naturally, ironically, America could not see them, nor the trail of glimmering dust, the essence of their very real, very potent magic, that shadowed their every motion.

There was a sudden knock at the front door, the heavy pounding echoing throughout the entire house. Frowning, England put aside his teacup and rose; but America, having immediately dropped what he was doing, had already gone scampering past him out of the kitchen and into the hallway, bounding along like a hunted rabbit. England followed him, slow enough that he only stepped out into the hallway as America opened the front door.

There was a group of Puritan children outside; teenagers, really, perhaps a little younger than America's physical age, a crowded cluster of grey and black and white. A boy at the front spoke, though England (from where he hung back suspiciously, eying the lot of them with caution and dislike), could not hear his words.

America nodded and conversed with them for a moment, his voice low too; then he paused and looked over his shoulder directly at England, his expression having hardened once again.

"There is to be a town meeting," he said stiffly, "regarding the discovery of witches within Salem's midst. I, naturally, must attend – but I think it might be better if you did not."

England nodded, approaching him; the Puritan posse at the door notably and collectively retreated at his advance, bristling a few feet away.

"Yes, I quite agree," he conceded, nodding again at their reaction. "I do not sit well with these people – nor they with I. However..." He caught decisively at America's wrist as the boy turned away from him. "...I would honestly prefer it if you did not give them the benefit of your presence either."

"I must go," America said coolly, pulling insistently. "It is my duty."

"Fanciful nonsense," England snapped, "and a grandiose role indeed which you have bestowed upon yourself! I utterly assure you that you have no duty about yourself other than to be loyal to the British Crown."

America snatched his wrist back and, when England reached for him again, roughly pushed him away; he was strong, of course, and almost as tall as England, who often forgot just how much America had grown. England backed up angrily, rubbing at his shoulder where America had shoved him.

"I _am_ loyal," America informed him coolly. "Enough that I feel that I must protect the British Crown's subjects – _your_ colonists – from the evils which are about us."

"_Nonsense_—" England began again heatedly.

"Think of it what you will," America interrupted, turning away again. "I am going and you will not stop me."

"Fine." England didn't lift even a finger to reach for him again, furious. "Enjoy your witch-hunt."

America shot him a very odd look.

"Oh," he said blandly, "I will."

He started out of the door, snatching up his coat (plain grey to match his entourage); England folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe, watching him go down the path with the hem of his coat flapping behind him. He knew both scraped wrists were showing above his skewed cuffs when America suddenly turned back towards him.

"You would do well," America called to him, his tone almost casual, conversational, "to remember what I said to you about trying to stop me."

"Ah, and with that feverish imagination of yours," England replied pleasantly (loud enough to allow America's little gang of smug Puritan youths to hear him too), "_you_ would do well to remember what I said to you about telling lies."

—

_Your words make no sense at all._

England tweaked at a crooked painting distractedly, twitching it this way and that. Trivially, it didn't look right to him; and not that it mattered, but he fixed it again and again, his fingers feeling grimy with dust from the frame. The marks at his throat and those at his arms had faded and disappeared but still he rubbed absently at his neck above his starched collar.

The house was quiet for America's absence.

Pausing, his hand still at the frame, he glanced at the fairies glimmering at the windowsill. He didn't know these ones by name; they were simply native to the area and charmed enough by his aura to draw close, to want to be in his presence without making contact with him. He frowned at them, half-debating chasing them away, barring them from the house, for their being here suddenly irked him. Banish them and he might banish the ill effects of their brand of magic upon America's mind, the damning consequence of the deal England had greedily and foolishly made with their king.

(He stayed his hand, however. What good would it do? It was no fairer to blame them than it was to blame America.)

Ah, and how ironic that America knew nothing of them, knew nothing of the witchcraft itself that had breathed life back into his body; knew nothing of Crow, knew nothing of the deal, nothing of England's begging to have his child restored to him. He _was_ a liar, of course; accusing the townspeople of witchcraft when he knew nothing of it himself, taking it upon his shoulders to root them out where they hid and cowered whilst he held that terrible secret asleep within his own heart, ignorant of why it beat. Of magic itself, there was truth enough in his words – but only because he _was_ the truth made flesh. His preaching, his heroic mission, they were nothing more than cruel and fabricated shams, excuses for his behaviour, for his ugliness. He was a hysterical liar and a dreadful zealot and England was, quite frankly, ashamed of him.

But still, he could not be unfair. He could not condemn. As twisted as America was, it was not the child's fault.

_Your words make no sense at all._

England lifted the shirt he had been mending last night, examining it critically. The stitches were crooked. He had been distracted. His hands had shaken.

He wondered how America led these town meetings – exactly how he whipped them all up into a terrified frenzy. Did he stand on a stage or a platform, as high as he could get, and speak to them passionately, piously, with his arms open? Did the sun flash in the gold of his hair, did his blue eyes seem as clear and pure as a mountain stream, did he appear so beautiful before him that they had no choice but to sink to their knees and declare his words the truth? Did they cluster about him, all eager to touch him, this angelic and perfect figure above them, as he vowed to protect them no matter what it cost, no matter how much blood he spilt?

Perhaps it was sullener, uglier, than this; but England found it difficult to imagine it any other way. America – the New World – was like a ray of sun, bright and barely tangible, amongst these Puritans, amongst the European nations. He was open and full of promise and hid well his dangers; people surged to him, drawn to him, and then he rolled up his sleeves and conducted carefully the way they would all fall before him. Like the Piper, regaled in the colours of the sky he played and led; and all who scurried, dirty and hunched, enchanted by the vague but valiant pledge of his tune, followed him blindly.

Of course. His hand fisted in the shirt. Of course America had changed.

Even his name. Different. So different.

(What happened to Roanoke? Who knows? No-one knows.)

Changed, then; a change_ling_, even, a gleeful and greedy evil, magical malice, his sickness seething behind his sunbright smile. Same body, restored exactly as Crow had promised; different mind, different title by which to be called. England had gone before the fairy king to beg and with nothing but his words (for his _own_ magic, lies or not, had not been strong enough) had asked and been granted his wish; but Roanoke had never awakened in his arms. _America_ had. His colony had been lost and in his precious place, at England's own foolish request, his wretched and worthless words, something beautiful and lethal had taken up residence inside his tiny shell.

England's words had made no sense at all.

(He took up the scissors and cut loose the thread from the shirt sleeve, pulling it out. He hadn't fixed it very well. He would simply have to try again.)

* * *

"England!"

America's mood was far merrier when he returned early afternoon, banging boisterously through the house in search of his guardian; England heard him coming and lowered his book as America came bounding into the study, swinging on the doorframe.

"England!" he said again; his round face was flushed with excitement and his eyes were alight with something rather feverish. "There is to be a hanging!" He clapped his hands together happily. "Is that not wonderful? We have convicted a witch and this evening she shall hang by the neck until she is dead for her crime!" He drew himself up taller, striking his fist against his chest. "I shall preside, of course, alongside Salem's magistrates and officials."

"How wonderful, America," England said graciously, going back to his book. "I am very proud of your dedication to the cause."

"T'is good of me, is it not?" America agreed, coming into the room properly; he hurried to England's armchair, draping himself about it. "It must be done, of course."

"Naturally," England agreed, not looking at him.

America smiled, prodding and picking at the armchair's upholstery for a long moment.

"England?" he asked at length.

"Yes, my dear?" Turn of page. Not even a flicker of a glance in the boy's direction.

"I..." America hesitated, then cleared his throat. "As... as representative of the colony of Salem, Massachusetts, I humbly request your presence at the hanging."

England shot him a sidelong look.

"Is that an order?" he asked gently.

America did his best to look down his nose at him. It made him look younger than ever.

"Of sorts, I suppose," he replied flatly. He averted his gaze, a little colour creeping into his face. "A-and... and I, well... I was rather hoping that you might perhaps... ah, that is... I wanted you to see... just how hard I have been working..."

England closed his book very deliberately and put it aside; he patted his lap.

"Just you come here for a moment," he said, holding his arms out, open.

America clambered into his lap happily, compressed like a coiled spring in England's arms once settled, for he really was getting much too big for this; he was beginning to become very heavy, too, his weight oppressive on England's jagged narrowness. He cuddled close, though, his thin arms tangled about England's shoulders.

"Now then," England said softly, pressing his cheek to the crown of America's head, "of course I shall accompany you to the hanging, lad; but first I must know exactly what sorts of lies you tell to facilitate such entertaining spectacles. You must forgive me – but I have little reason to believe that you know all that much of witchcraft and its practitioners and yet you proclaim yourself judge and jury on the matter."

America stiffened noticeably in his grasp.

"I know enough," he said coolly, "as do we all. Is it not our duty, as a good and God-fearing community, to know those with the mark of the Devil upon them when we see them? Do you suggest that I am blind to evil?"

"Not at all," England replied easily, "and yet I cannot help but feel that you know too little of magic to call yourself any sort of expert upon it. Your fear – and your equation of witchcraft with Godlessness – does not compensate for knowledge."

"But a conviction counts for all," America replied icily. He pulled himself out of England's lap and stood, his expression darkening. "I make the truth – and do not forget that all who oppose me will hang for heresy."

"That is," England conceded mildly, "if they do not hang for witchcraft first." He stood himself, leaning towards America (who seemed as though he wanted to back away but held his ground, drawing in a deep breath). "My dear boy, you would not know a witch if they were staring you straight in the face."

America met his gaze for a long moment, his face very white. He swallowed.

"Yes," he replied softly at great length, "I would."

—

America tugged at his hand, trying to hasten their pace as they made their way towards the open square at Salem's centre. England held him steady, refusing to be dragged, and despite his impatience, America did not try to pull away. Indeed, it had been _he_ who had slipped his hand into England's, not the other way around.

There was a fair crowd gathered about the scaffold; it seemed that all of Salem had turned out for the affair and again they clinked and bristled against one another like smooth, uniform pebbles in anticipation of the tide, waiting to be washed under. America pulled England through the cluster, making his way to the front, and the people parted for them, reverent for America and repulsed by England in his green and gold.

The accused, as England had suspected, was an old woman, frail and widowed with no-one to stand up for her; the practice, then, was much the same as it had been back in Europe decades before, with mostly elderly and widowed women, childless or poor or homeless, being targeted, for they had no-one to speak on their behalf. He did not know why he had expected it to be any different, for the witch-hunts had been exactly the same in his own lands, in France's, in Spain's, in Germany's.

New England was Old England was Ancient Europe.

The woman quaked and begged, beseechingly bleating her innocence, her grey hair tangled and flyaway beneath her bedraggled bonnet; she was drowned out by the magistrate who spoke loudly over her, reading a list of the accusations against her for which she was to be hanged. At her denial, the crowd began to become restless, jostling and jeering at her, calling for her to repent her sins and die.

England did not even have it in him to be sickened by the spectacle, for he was used to it; he did not, however, enjoy it. He looked to America, whose hands were clasped piously together. His lips were moving quickly and silently and his face was, once again, delightedly flushed. He looked so happy that he was truly radiant, so easily the prettiest thing about this entire ugly affair that he looked as though he did not belong within it.

The old woman, who had begun to sob in terror, was forcefully escorted, half-stumbling, up the steps of the scaffold; her hands were tied roughly together as she screeched piteously for the Lord's mercy. She was so perfectly wretched that England did not see how there could be so much pleasure taken from her treatment. Witch or not (and she was no witch, naturally), she was such a trembling and miserable specimen that had her crime been, instead, the true poisoning of a hundred men, even warlike England, who had killed enough in his time, would have had his heart moved only to absolute pity as he watched them bind her feet. How, then, these supposedly good and God-fearing people could call and cheer at her impending execution, he simply failed to understand.

"America," he said, seizing the boy by the shoulders, "if you have _any_ goodness about you, you will stop this! This is protecting nobody!"

America – the wicked little changeling child – turned his smile on him.

"Of course it is," he replied. "You cannot expect it to be easy."

"That is no witch before you!"

"Oh, England," America said, his smile fading somewhat, "please do not make me unhappy; stay your tongue if you have not the kindness to agree. My greatest desire is, after all, to protect _you_."

He pulled away and went scampering up the scaffold's steps; the accused woman had had a cloth tied about her face and was being led, still struggling as best she could, to the noose. The crowd pressed forward in anticipation, England disgustedly feeling them swell and surge at his back, screaming for the death of the witch.

Senseless.

(Then he would have to make sense come of his words.)

He stepped up onto the scaffold just as the rope was put about the old woman's neck; he did not go unnoticed, this bright gold-and-green reminder of all that the Puritans had left behind when they sailed from Plymouth. He was ready to condemn their strict and stringent ways, their appalling austerity, just as Old England had.

"Still you interfere!" America cried angrily at him, clenching his fists. "Sorely I wish that you had not set foot upon these shores until this business had been dealt with!"

"And I the same," England replied coldly, watching how the magistrates clustered behind America, using him as a shield, "that I had not been forced to bear witness to this shameful spectacle."

"This is the price that must be paid!" America insisted. "This is what we must do for security! We cannot be safe as long as our enemy walks amongst us – and, to that end, I will not suffer a witch to live."

"Admirable," England granted, "and yet no witch has suffered at your ardent hands."

"Hah!" America pointed exultantly at the old woman with the rope around her neck; his eyes were absolutely afire with that same triumphant and gruesome pride England had seen in them as the boy had first drawn back the curtain on the entire performance, the sallow light swinging in them as had his witches. "Then your sight fails you!"

"No," England countered calmly, "it is, I fear, clearer than ever." He drew himself up. "I shall endeavour to do the same for you. Your lies will not be made truth no matter how much you insist upon them unless I show you what real magic really is."

Something in America's face definitely flickered but he said nothing, strangely silent amid the cries of bloodlust that rose all around them; the trapdoor beneath the old woman's feet creaked as the mechanism readied at the touch of the lever and England, his eyes never leaving America's face, snapped his fingers. The noose unbraided itself and fell apart at his silent command, scattering wisps across the scaffold.

The entire square fell quiet and every pair of eyes settled on England.

"Do you understand now?" he asked icily, addressing them all but still holding America's gaze. "Witchcraft? You have never _seen_ witchcraft but that which stands before you now."

He meant America as well, naturally, his resurrected body with which he led the entire merry dance. What would he do now? A gamble, certainly; but with these cards tossed out before him, England wondered how America would react. His guardian, his older brother, _his_ _England_... a witch. Now what? Would the rules remain unchanged?

Still silence. No good. England needed more of a reaction than that – and these people were easy enough to bait.

"You all seem to thrive on whipping up fear," he said coolly, turning at last to the crowd. "I shall put fear in you, then, if it will serve to teach you."

He muttered a few words and held out his hands; before him, behind them, a flame flickered to life at the top of the church's steeple, rapidly spreading in the straight lines of the roof's structure, burning needle-like pathways at lightning speed so that soon the fire was bright and bold and blazing.

Silence; horrified, terrified silence. England looked back at America, who, wide-eyed, could meet his gaze only briefly before lowering his head to stare at the scaffold. The stench of burning wood and smoke drowned the air and still the crowd didn't move, didn't utter a sound, looking up at the church. Twenty-six "witches" had been executed for nothing other than made-up accusations; faced with the real thing and they seemed not to believe it, not knowing what to do with themselves as England burnt down their church.

England cared little for Salem's Puritans, his eyes on America and America alone. The boy shook, his fists clenched at his sides, and for a moment England was struck with something – that perhaps Roanoke was not gone but instead merely suppressed, sharing his old body with its newer, stronger inhabitant, the strange and twisted changeling who called himself 'America'. Perhaps it was Roanoke who surfaced every now and then in those kind moments, Roanoke who smiled that sunshine smile, Roanoke who sought to protect England (who had never hidden his powers) from America (who sought to destroy him for them).

Now that England had deliberately exposed himself to teach Salem a little lesson, would Roanoke surface again and banish for good America and his witch-hunts, his terrible punishments and revenges on those who were imperfect to him, who dared to raise their hand to him, who had the courage to stand up against him and declare him wrong?

America lifted his head; and with a sinking heart, England could clearly see that something in the boy's expression had utterly _snapped_.

"Witch," he declared, smiling.

That was all it took. At that single word, the crowd became frenzied; his perfectly-trained puppets repeating it as a chant, _witch witch witch witch witch_. _hang the witch. burn the witch. kill the witch. _The smouldering church blazed behind them, a fitting backdrop, England thought ironically.

Very well. This was his last card. He didn't frighten them away with magic. He didn't struggle as they tied his wrists and pulled him to one of the other ropes.

He didn't call Crow.

Hang the witch. He held America's eyes until the last moment. Perhaps _this_, at last, would get it out of his system – England could sacrifice nothing greater than this to save him.

(America was still smiling, his yellow hair lifting in the heat like flames.)

—

England opened his eyes to darkness. Exhaling, he lay still for a moment – he was lying down on his back on hard wood – and gathered his bearings. He didn't know how long he had been out for. Conventional deaths, of course, had little effect on nations – but he had never been hanged before and hadn't an idea how long it took for their kind to recover from an execution of that sort. He was more accustomed to sword and arrow-related deaths, both of which healed quickly.

He tried to lift his arms and found that they hit wood, which shifted and rattled at his touch. Coffin, then – but not nailed shut and not yet buried. Excellent. That would have been a bother and more effort than he was feeling up to expending. He pressed his palms against the coffin's flimsy lid and pushed it off, letting it clatter aside as he sat up. The sky was rather a long way overhead, the dusty heather of very early morning.

He looked up at the steep earthen walls of the grave. How cute. America obviously hadn't wanted the thing to go to waste, even if he'd had England's corpse tossed into what looked like the cheapest bleeding coffin he could find and not bothered to fill the grave in. Oddly enough, he almost felt like chiding the lad for being so lazy.

He stood up and dusted himself off, rubbing at his neck. He could have done without being hanged but there was no lasting damage. He'd go straight home, he thought, and perhaps have a bath, a luxury he felt that he had earned, and then some tea—

"Ah, it took you longer to revive than I was expecting!" America said, leaning over the edge of the grave.

England looked up at him guardedly.

"Have you been sitting there waiting for me?" he asked frostily.

America beamed at him.

"Of course I have!" he chirped. "I know that you would not stay dead. Come!" He extended his arm downwards. "There is much to be done."

England hesitated for a long moment before putting his hand into America's and allowing him to help him scramble up out of the grave.

"Now then, boy," he began, pulling away and adjusting his cravat, "I sincerely hope that you..."

He trailed off. Before him was the entire population of Salem, still assembled; behind them, the blackened remains of the church offered a pathetic plume of smoke to the bruising post-dawn sky. They were all looking at him in absolute horror.

"See!" America cried happily, seizing England's wrist. "This here is a witch indeed, that even hanging by the neck does not steal the breath from his body! If there is to be remedy, there is not a moment to lose! Magistrates, light your torches!"

England tried to wrestle away from America as he saw the silent crowd part; in the midst of their circle was a crudely-constructed stake, piled about with straw and scrap wood.

"Wh... what is this?" England hissed at him, fiercely resisting – but America was too strong.

"Your execution for witchcraft, of course," America replied, dragging him easily towards the stake. "I do not know, I admit, how many executions it will take, but I _will_ have it eradicated, mark my words. As many methods as man has invented I will use to end your every life after life, until this very witchcraft itself falls still at my command."

The torches, lit, wavered patiently around the stake as America tied England to it himself.

"America, come to your senses," England spat at him (but still he did not struggle anywhere near as much as a mortal might have done, allowing America to bind him). "No matter how many times you kill me, as long as Britain breathes across the ocean, I will revive."

"I know," America sighed. "My words make no sense."

He smiled and it glowed far brighter than the flames atop the magistrate's torches; and England looked at him helplessly, at the monster he had set loose upon the world.

Standing on the straw, America wrapped his arms around England's shoulders, stake and all, to whisper another little sing-song secret.

"Hey, England..."

[America pressed close over him, behind him, as he signed his name to the agreement; overbearing, smelling strongly of leather because of that damned bomber jacket he never took off. His hand almost closed about England's wrist as he lowered the pen – and with that, with England's allowance, Japan would not go unpunished.

"Hey, England," America said low in his ear—]

"Isn't this a fun game?"

* * *

Britain was in agreement for the dropping of the atomic bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima in 1945; that's part of the reason the Cold War started, because Russia, the only one of the "Big Three" not consulted on the matter, was convinced (rightly, as it turned out) that the USA and UK were sharing technological secrets behind its back.

A **changeling** was a strong superstition of Tudor-period Britain (though it was feared earlier and later, too), where families worried that evil fairies would steal a newborn baby and replace it with a wicked fairy child which would cry a lot, have a large and unusual appetite and bring bad luck. The Tudors had a test for a changeling child which would get child services involved today; putting the "changeling" on the coal shovel and holding it over the fire! If it was a fairy changeling, it would fly away up the chimney. It if wasn't... well. There we are. o.O It wasn't any better than the Tudor English way of testing for witches, though; they'd tie the accused witch up in a sack and throw them into a river. If the "witch" floated, they were guilty; if they sank, they were innocent but had probably drowned by the time they were fished out.

(Ahh, getting your history education from Terry Deary's _Horrible Histories_ books. That's a 90s (British) childhood for you~!)

Well, this really exhausted me to write and took longer than I thought it would but I'm glad I did it! I really enjoyed unpacking a lot of the meaning in Otoshigo's original comic (though a lot of it may have been deeper meaning than she intended and I read too much into it, haha!), these ideas of the truth and what constitutes it, what can be right or wrong depending on who says it, etc, I think because I initially misread the ending of _The Lost Colony_ and interpreted it differently than Otoshigo's intention, so I thought it was fascinating how more than one meaning can be drawn from the same conclusion (or the same "truth"). I felt that America and the different ways he behaves in the continuation I wrote was a good facet for that sort of skewing-around of perception. I really hope I was able to get all that across in the fic, though! XD

Thank you all for reading – and, once again, thank you very much to Otoshigo for both drawing such a wonderful comic and for allowing me to write this! I hope you all enjoyed my offering!

RobinRocks

xXx


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